Saturday, April 18, 2015

An excerpt of this essay appeared in The New York Times in recognition of the 100th anniversary of the Armenian genocide.

My grandmother’s name was
Pailadzou, but the inspector at Ellis Island translated her name as Mercury—the
winged messenger of the ancient Roman gods. Sometimes I like to imagine the
inspector. (He looks like Kafka, but with glasses.) Who was this gatekeeper between
worlds? Such an important figure in my grandmother’s future, and for future
generations, shouldn’t be anonymous. Was he was a poetic existentialist trapped
in a stifling, bureaucratic job? Did he fall instantly in love with my
beautiful grandmother, sympathize with her plight, and decide then and there to
give her an auspicious name? Or was he just bored and cynical?

Pailadzou Tutunjian was born
in Ada Bazaar, Turkey, in 1894. She grew up on a farm and had to quit school to
work. Eventually a wealthy Turkish family in Constantinople employed her before
she secured passage on a ship called The King Alexander in 1921.

My mother, Roxanne (Araxie),
was born here and grew up in the Bronx, surrounded by extended family who
trickled into the neighborhood. Armenian was her first language. Her father,
Haroutoun Sanossian, lost most of his family in the massacre. She told me
she hated hearing him talk about it. He would get so angry.

My mother and grandmother
raised me, but I’m only half-Armenian. I understand Armenian but I can barely
speak the language. Still, I clarify my own butter to make pilaf, the way my
grandmother taught me, and I’ve been told I have an Ada Bazaartzi accent.

My grandmother’s sister,
Aghavny, buried a daughter on the death march. I learned that only recently from
a cousin of mine over email. I don’t know for sure if my grandmother was on the
march because she never talked about it. Armenian families were driven from their homes with whatever they could carry and forced into the Syrian desert. Many died along the way, or were killed.

My grandmother, Pailadzou, second from right, with her siblings.
Her sister Aghavny, seated center, holds her daughter's hand.

My grandmother’s silence
troubles me. You mustn’t confuse it with the silence of the Turks—a denial that
serves as a continuing violence to every Armenian and anyone who values human
rights. Denial means we allow it to happen again and again today, to the Palestinians in Israel, to the Tamils in Sri Lanka,
to everyone everywhere who is targeted because of race or ethnicity.

My grandmother had kind,
sparkling eyes. Even well into her 80s, she prepared dolma, tended our garden,
and I can’t remember a day when she wasn’t cheerful, energetic, and loving. I
understand my grandmother’s silence as a way of ensuring a sense of stability
and normalcy. Keeping her mouth shut came at a price I can only guess at. Some
mornings she would wake up with her mouth covered in blisters. My mother and I
always knew this meant she had dreamt of the massacre, but still she wouldn’t
speak of it. It’s easier for me to imagine the inspector’s face than my
grandmother’s suffering. Only once do I recall her describing an atrocity: how
the Turks, laughing, stabbed the bellies of pregnant Armenian women as they
were giving birth. I assumed that this was something she had heard about. There
is so much I will never know about the woman who raised me. I wish now that I
could raise my voice and speak for her.

This year (this month, in fact) marks the centennial of the Armenian genocide, and the AG Campaign for Genocide Awareness website has gathered hundreds of personal accounts and family stories. I'm honored that my grandmother's story has been included here (in slightly different form) with so many other important stories.